The Stranger
by Hoobajoo
Summary: A man awakes in a strange fantasy world with no memory. In the midst of war, his existance could threaten the very fabric of the world, or save it from the mysterious Dark Man. CHAPTER 4 - ZOMBIES HAVE ARRIVED! Rated T, will change to M.
1. Chapter 1

The Stranger ch 1

**Author's note: This is a new project that I intend to take very seriously as a hobby. I'm sure it's ambitious and naïve of me, but I want to write this as a full fledged novel. It's a fantasy story in the vein of Fiest, Gemmel and Jordan but much darker subject matter and content. It's dark fantasy.**

**What is this story doing in the Dawn of Dead section? It's got zombies in it, however eventually. **

**Anyway, on with the show…..**

CHAPTER 1 - PROLOGUE

The man was tired and his muscles ached, but he didn't dare slow his run for fear something was after him. He had no idea where he was or where he was going. He was running blind in pitch black darkness. No matter what sense he tried to make of his current situation, he was consumed by a panicked terror. He couldn't recall the past few moments other than he had spent it running from a horrid feeling death was right behind him.

_Escape._

Whatever it was he couldn't let it get him.

His eyes darted in all directions but it was a black void wherever he looked. Up or down it all seemed the same. There was no other logic than to choose a direction and keep running as far and as fast as he could. However, there was no point of reference amongst the darkness to know which direction he was heading, where it went or if indeed he was going straight. For all he knew he was running around in circles.

_Possibly upside down?_

Despite the constant thud of his feet plodding against the ground, he couldn't see to know if the ground or his feet were truly there. The detached sensation of using his legs yet not being able to see them only added to the confused fear, spurring him on. He couldn't even explain how his legs were working or contemplate what they were and how he made them move. They seemed to work by themselves as though they were directed by some other power.

He desperately wanted to behold himself, know what body he was in, but he had no concept of hands to feel, even as his arms unconsciously snapped back and forth in rhythm with every step. Curiosity slowly seeped through the panic and he attempted to properly appraise the situation. Only then did he notice the burn of his lungs and the feel of cold air buffeting against naked skin. He was cold and hot at the same time in all sorts of places. He wasn't even sure he had a body in which to feel hot and cold or whether it was some perverted trick or hallucination.

_Questions, questions, what, where, questions, how, why?_

_Who?_

No reply, no echo and no change. The black only stretched out in all directions, like a boundless prison. He cried, screaming as he wondered whether he was moving at all, whether despite his best efforts he was uselessly staying in one place as death gained ground. Was his predator toying with him? Was there no hope of escape other than the struggle to stay alive for just a few more seconds? Was he dooming himself by continuing to push in his chosen direction? If he turned himself to the left or right would it suddenly offer salvation? Was there something just beyond his reach? Something he couldn't quite see?

_Which way is left or right anyway?_

Suddenly, the sky opened up and stars appeared. As dark as the scene remained, they seemed like brilliant blinding explosions of light. One after the other they each seemed brighter than before. He couldn't contain his joy and screamed with relief. He had received a lifeline, a revelation.

_I am somewhere. I am not mad._

Looking around he was both dumbfounded and ecstatic to see a horizon. He could see left and right, however barely. On the left were boulders amongst tall tufts of grass. The smooth finish of the rock shone dully in the starlight, illuminating their shape and position as well as any fire could have.

On his right he saw what he hoped were trees dotting the flat landscape. Their branches were only barely visible, swallowing up the light as opposed to the boulders that reflected it proudly. Their gnarled forms appeared like great, but twisted hands pushing up from the dirt. He had no idea whether they had remained there all this time or had cut through the earth to attempt to catch him, to grasp his body within their dark clutches and crush the life out of him. Further still, the light from the stars was not enough to give perspective to tell whether they were shrinking back into the horizon or whether they were chasing after him.

_What good are the stars when they only show my enemies? The darkness was better!_

But the darkness was behind him, the way he came, where those monsters were. There was no way he would turn around, he decided with a feverish determination. He would continue on. At least now he could get a glimpse of what lay ahead.

Focusing his attention forward, he screamed as the stars abruptly disappeared and the darkness returned. He searched overhead for them, but they were gone. He desperately wished to see them again. Was it some unseen master toying with him, providing a glimpse of beauty only to take it away?

Now he was back in the void of black emptiness, possibly running the wrong way. Should he turn around? For all he knew he had been here a lifetime and had found the only oasis of light within an endless world of black.

But he was being chased. He was being followed and it was getting closer. He had not the faintest inkling of whatever the predator might be other than that it certainly existed, and it was not those tree monsters. He felt the belief from deep inside, an infallible truth born of instinct that he couldn't deny as much as he wished he could.

He couldn't go back. He had to keep running.

_But I'm tired. So tired._

He was slowing down. He could feel it and his throat and lungs burned more than ever. The sensation of his legs moving dulled with every step. They turned numb from fatigue, but he pressed on.

_I must keep moving. To stop is to die._

Curiously, it was slightly comforting to feel his legs disappear as though the sensation of anything physical interrupted the peace of the darkness. He preferred to think he was not a body, not anybody, but some intangible form drifting along. Pushing forward through will alone with no flesh to be devoured and to feel pain when death descended.

_I don't want to die._

Just as quickly as they disappeared, the stars returned and he could see again in the pale murk. Looking around with focussed intent, he saw the landscape in all directions in all of its uninterrupted clarity.

He was in an open field.

Everything suddenly made sense as though the pieces of a giant puzzle fell into place all at once. He was a man running through an open grass field. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the trees of a thick forest trail away behind him.

_Trees. Just trees._

All this time it had just been a forest. The thick canopy had blocked out the starlight, bathing him completely in darkness. That first glimpse of the stars must have been a break in the canopy, but now the way was clear. No more trees, just flat plains in all directions.

He was sure he never felt happier in all of his life.

_Life? What life?_

Whatever elation he felt quickly disappeared as his surrounds quickly threw up as many questions as they answered. He was a man running through a field and knew nothing more.

_Who am I?_

_What's going on?_

Lost in thought, he didn't see the small rock coming, stubbed his toe against it and tumbled into the grass. What little breath he had was crushed out of his lungs and his vision blurred. He felt as light as a feather.

_Let the wind just blow me away._

His stomach squeezed tightly in on itself and the euphoria was replaced by a horrid feeling he would vomit. But the uneasiness passed and he took a moment to steady himself.

A light. He saw a light. Not a star, but a proper solitary light just ahead. It was not like the faint stars overhead, but shone with a distant intensity and a golden hue that grabbed his eyes and would not let go.

With a startled yelp he was back on his feet.

_A house!_

The surge of pain in his toes was quickly ignored as he stumbled after it with renewed determination, his panic tempered. He moved as quickly as he could, but it was difficult trying to operate legs that felt a million miles away and belonging to someone else. Nonetheless, they worked. Whatever landmarks that passed by now were ignored as he fixed on that solitary light, extracting hope from its meagre existence as it grew nearer.

The wind howled around him, whistling through multitudes of tiny hidden nooks and crannies. He hoped it was the wind at least and not the angry cry of his pursuer. It wailed with a sad longing that tugged at his bowels, but he tensed his body and did his best to shrug it off.

_It must be that the monster knows the light offers safety and screams its anger for me._

With that thought, he redoubled his efforts, letting the weight of his body sway forward and pull him along faster until the house was almost within his reach. Craving the light like a starving man for a morsel of food, he salivated for whatever was inside. The light was so soft and golden and pure.

Toppling forward, his hands fell upon the stone of the house's exterior and his feet nearly fell out from under him with relief. He could hear voices inside. Playful, innocent and happy. Sanctuary.

Another gust of cold wind tugged at his exhausted frame, and he willed his legs to stand with a groan. Fearful again of the unseen enemy behind him, he stumbled for the front door and collapsed against it, shouting desperately into the door's thick pine slats.

"Help! Please, you must help me!" he cried before succumbing to a coughing fit and recoiling to the ground amongst the dust. The air seemed so cold, draining away the very essence of his life. He couldn't move. His body, everywhere was either burning with a painful fire or was chilled to the bone and seizing up in defeat.

_Stay awake!_

The golden light was suddenly upon him, blinding him and wrapping around his meagre form. Hands reached out and clasped him, dragging him inside.

_Heaven._

All was warm and bright. A delicious aroma assaulted his nose and woke him from his stupor like a slap on the cheek. His blurred vision righted itself quickly and settled upon the soft face of a concerned man, his eyes promising blessed help and empathy. A kind soul.

"Who are you? Are you hurt?" the man asked.

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." He babbled over and over, letting his relief pour out. Whoever these people were, he would do anything to thank them. Anything.

"Sit him down, Calen. I will get him some leftovers."

"What is this man doing out so late?"

"Daddy, why does the man have no clothes on?"

"Away, child! Get some blankets."

"Here, have some of this."

Soft but firm hands guided him down onto a chair. The relief for his legs was the purest ecstasy he both savoured and wished never to feel again. The weight of his tired body seemed so great, he feared he might somehow fall through the chair to the floor, but managed to sit up within the man's comforting grip as a warm bowl of soup was served beneath his nose.

_Yes, heaven._

"Eat, please. You are so weak."

Although his stomach growled, protesting its impatience he couldn't help but stop to behold the crude meal's delightful smell. A vast array of tastes and delights tingled his nose and spread throughout his entire body as though it provided sustenance all of its own. Strength and focus returned and he reached for the spoon.

"Who are you? What happened to you?"

"Don't know." He blurted out as he heaped a potato sodden with the soup's mixture into his mouth and choked it down without chewing. It felt like a ball of jagged thorns all the way down and it was the purest, most enjoyable pain he had ever felt. Beautiful torture.

"What happened to you? Bandits? Robbed?"

The man looked up, happy to look upon the sweet voice as he waited for the potato to make its way to his stomach. He judged it only halfway there and moving with a teasing pleasurable slowness. For a moment lost in the euphoria, the mention of robbers pulled his mind away back into the panic he felt outside. Something was after him. He could still feel it and the hairs on his shoulders and neck rose as it felt suddenly so cold again. The crackle of the fire in the corner seemed to turn mute and its heat lost, turned to ice.

That horrid feeling was still there, crawling under his skin. He was still being pursued. He was not safe after all. It was still coming for him.

Looking again into the eyes of the man before him and his darling wife and children staring with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty, he despaired for them. He had now involved them, they were sure to die with him.

As if reading his thoughts, the front door burst open, breaking the bolt that held it closed and locked as a blurred figure in black leaped into the light. It looked like a man and yet it did not, moving with unnatural speed and grace. It was a shadow. A ghost that absorbed all of the light and warmth around it. The tired man was sure that it was now just as dark and cold inside the house as it was outside despite the hearth.

Death was here.

The instincts that brought him to this house stirred again, wakening his exhausted body and propelling him out of his chair and over the dinner table with scant regard for whatever broke underfoot or shattered on the stone floor. The unfortunate family around him, however, were frozen in fear and could not move, even as the assassin charged inside and cut them to pieces as though they were nothing. They did not slow him down as he charged over the table after his prey.

The tired man ran blind out of the kitchen and through a narrow hallway. An open door at the end revealed a meagre bedroom crowded with furniture, unmade linen and wooden toys. A rocking horse, a child's play kitchen and various dolls on the floor stared up at the ceiling waiting for someone to guide them back into animation. Passed the distractions, he saw a window with closed shutters on the bedroom's far wall. With no other option having presented itself, the tired man sprinted inside, and dived for the closed window from the foot of one of the beds. He hoped that the shutters were either fragile or unclasped.

His bare knuckles led the way in flight and he crashed through the thin wood clumsily but cleanly until his foot caught against the window frame, breaking some of his toes. His momentum was then lost and he fell into a flower bed of soft moist soil.

Panicked, he struggled to his feet again, but froze as an icy shadow rushed overhead. The assassin landed on his feet with a cat's grace. Smooth and soundless, his dark form momentarily blended perfectly into the night but soon revealed itself again as he rose. He towered above him and stared down with eyes shining a pale pink that deepened to an angry crimson.

The tired man below him felt as small as he could ever know and retreated down as low as his body would stoop, hoping somehow he would be swallowed up into the soil. There was no life to flash before his eyes and he realised that despite his best efforts there was never any chance he could have truly eluded what was to come. It was all for nothing now as the assassin coolly revealed an ornately curved blade that shimmered in the gloom. As with everything of the assassin, it glided through the air weightlessly. Smooth movements of the purest efficiency and intent, it hovered a moment before him in the assassin's sure hand, granting enough pause for the tired man to imagine what it could do to his naked body.

"Please…" he quivered but the assassin grunted impatiently and struck. The tired man had not the time to properly understand what had occurred as his head fell from his shoulders into the dirt beside his body. For the briefest of moments he had the spirit left to think he had somehow retreated into the soil and would be carried away to safety. There was no pain, only a detached notion all was not quite right as his consciousness drifted away to darkness. His life snuffed out.

The assassin hovered over the corpse of his target, watching the man's pathetic body slump and then twitch in death's caress. His form had been perfect and swift, his favourite blade continued to shine in the pale light with the same intensity having avoided any stain of blood. It had been wielded too quickly for any to stick.

His eyes lingered a moment as they cooled from the burning crimson back to a faint pink and finally settled to an uninterrupted clear white. He had no iris, no pupils. They dulled beneath his mask as he replaced his blade back within the folds of his flowing black cape. He took in a deep breath, savouring the scent of the crushed flowers amongst the growing pool of blood at his feet.

His voice disturbed the still night air, like a stone scraping against glass, "Another trespasser is dead."

A hand reached inside a concealed pocket and produced a small vial of purple liquid. He casually tossed it down on the dead man's body which was suddenly engulfed in white flame. The fires quickly devoured the corpse, reducing it to ashen scraps and progressed to the house behind. The flames travelled along up along the stone wall and roared over the thatch roof in mere seconds. The assassin stood relaxed at the edge of the pyre watching. Stone and wood and clay all fell in on itself and eventually smouldered to a thick pile of ashen nothingness.

The smoke it produced was blacker than the night it drifted away into and smelled of the harshest acidic burn, but it did not bother him at all. When it was all done and the heated glow disappeared, he raised a hand. The air in front of him seemed to fold apart and open like a curtain, revealing a bright blue glow from within. Without fear or fanfare, he simply stepped through into the void and it swiftly closed behind him, leaving no trace it was ever there at all to begin with.

And with that, he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Images and words swirled around in his mind like a whirlpool, tugged in all directions and eventually sucked away beyond the reach of memory. Those that he could ascertain were dulled, their details muffled leaving behind scant oscillations to grab onto. Some however were stronger than others. By their clarity they seemed more important, prioritised to the forefront of his attention by a force he wasn't aware of, possibly his own.

He could see things, but they were either too blurred or far away to be of any use. Nothing could be processed with any meaning so he focused on the sounds that attacked from all sides. A grand jumble of noises and words, slurred and blunted by each source's desire to be heard over the other.

Voices pierced the cacophony, clear enough to decipher but their owners unrecognisable. Whether male or female, he couldn't tell. It was androgynous and unified.

"Please no!"

"Stop it!"

"Please! Xavier! Where are you?"

"Elena! I'm here!"

"Shut up, bitch! Keep still."

They were the same voice spoken by different people. He was sure of it. Each spoke with a differing urgency and often overlapped, but the colour and tone of the voices heard were the same. Disguised within confusion.

Was it memory or a dream? Is it incomplete?

"Xavier! Help me!"

"You bastard! Get off her!"

"Xavier! It hurts!"

The voices were growing louder, but he couldn't be sure exactly how many there were. Their volume made it even more difficult to differentiate between them, to the point where it coagulated into a loud painful mess of sound.

"Help me!"

In an instant they were gone and replaced by a confused sensation that he was somewhere else entirely. The swirl of useless images was now replaced by an endless darkness that slowly receded from the centre to reveal a light. At first pleasant, it quickly grew and caused discomfort.

Wherever he was when the memories(dreams?) presented themselves in their whirlpool, he was now conscious of another sense previously ignored or forgotten.

Touch. He could feel he was something. He was a physical being, within something and he was somewhere.

The bright light before him disappeared in an instant by a physical movement he could feel but didn't directly command.

_Wait! It happened again. How did I do that? What is it?_

He tried to replicate it without knowing where to start, but was surprised to find the bright light would disappear whenever he commanded it to do so. Even as he practiced it, causing the darkness to disappear either for short instances or concentrated periods of time, he couldn't understand exactly how it occurred. Nonetheless, he had control over something.

Spirited, he turned his attention elsewhere. There was a feeling he could detect behind him. It was a disconcerting notion to know something was there, but at the same time have no point of reference to know where 'behind' was. Focussing on the curious predicament, the feeling of 'behind' seemed to expand and captured a sensation of weight. It was everywhere and yet more in some places than others.

_Wait. How can I feel? What am I?_

Like removing a rock impeding a river's flow, awareness flowed from all directions and he moved.

_Moved?_

The light he could see focussed and a scene presented itself as the world seemed to tilt. It was a forest, thick with moisture and growth. The ground was covered in a carpet of golden brown leaves of all shapes and sizes, some new and clean, but many more discoloured and rotting. Rising from amongst the soft floor were tree trunks, the beginning of their roots snaking amongst the leaves and disappearing beneath completely. The trees' size and mottled bark suggested they were old.

Comprehension of the scene before him gave rise to further discoveries. Tilting the world again revealed a naked body, pale skin, a torso, arms and legs, fingers and toes. It did not make sense at first, until he realised it was his own.

A man.

He was a man in a forest.

The view disappeared again for an instant, bathed in black before returning. It made sense now what had just occurred. He had blinked.

Using a similar command as that to blink, he looked at his right hand, relaxed in an open palm, and commanded it to clench into a fist.

It did so.

He tried it with his other hand, which was similarly successful and eventually managed to shift his entire body into a comfortable seating position amongst the soft leaves. The joy of discovery of his form was blunted by a numbed pain that percolated throughout. His joints were stiff, his muscles aching and he was somewhat cold.

Running his hands over his body, he could feel muscle and bone beneath the skin and smiled at the rhythm of his heart beating in his chest. Raising his hands towards his eyes, he was comforted to feel he had a face and scalp, but was frustrated to find his hair short and thus could not find a strand long enough to see what colour it was.

His skin was pale and clung tightly to his flesh. He was not fat, rather quite lean with sinewy muscle. Nor was he hairy, finding only isolated tufts on his chest, and more in all of the places he knew to find it. Amongst the search was the confirmation of his initial supposition that he was indeed a man, but skipped over exploring that area further out of embarrassment. Puzzling, he checked his face again and found his jaw was smooth. He expected a beard. He had been shaved recently, but was not sure whether by his hand or another's.

Despite whatever other features of his body that were yet to be explored, his attention was caught by several tattoos of dark lettering marked across his pelvis and one each on the inside of his forearms. His left forearm read 'Giveth' and his right, 'Taketh Away', both in menacing gothic script.

The scrawl across his front just above his manhood was ordered into five small but district groups of text of a language he didn't recognise. Studying them for a moment, he soon gave up after fruitlessly scratching around amongst jumbled memories and finding nothing of value.

_Memories?_

He was struck at the thought and tried to focus on where he had been for the past few moments. He knew he was either asleep or unconscious and had been dreaming, but could not recall any of it in useful detail. The answers were on the tip of his consciousness, but every time he reached to remember they seemed to blur even more and flitter away. No words, no images. All gone, yet still there somewhere out of reach. Finally he gave up in a sour mood.

Redirecting his efforts, he scoured other areas of his mind and sought for more distant recollections. In contrast, there was no inclination that there was anything at all to find. He stared at a blank piece of paper without any idea whether the sheet was undisturbed or had once harboured information now erased.

_What is my name?_

Don't know.

_Is my name "Dont Know" or do you really not know?_

Don't know.

_Alright, where am I? What was I doing?_

Don't know.

_Wait, which one? There 'where' or 'what' question?_

Don't know.

_Grrr. What was I dreaming about, huh? I know there's something there._

Not sure.

_And that is different from 'don't know' is it?_

Don't know.

_Fuck this._

Tired of the fruitless introspection, he rose up to survey his surroundings. At first unsteady, his confidence grew as he savoured the feel of the leaves between his toes. It felt good to stand, more human.

Turning in a slow circle, he swallowed the view and gasped in surprise. All around except for a few, the trees were torn apart and roughly felled. The trees were not cut with an axe, rather the rough splinters that stabbed upwards from exposed tree stumps suggested they had been pushed over and snapped. All of these trees, most of them former towering giants, had fallen away from where he stood.

_Did I do this?_

Don't know.

_Shut up, you're not helping._

His heart was racing and he felt hot in spite of the cool air. Eager to escape, he picked a random direction and walked, eying the dead and dying trees amongst the disturbed carpet of leaves. He could hear no birds calling, no animal calls. Not even the rustling of leaves in the wind. The air was still. He walked through it like it was a curtain, hovering in the way to be pushed to one side. It was thick with moisture. Squinting throughout the soft sunlight that filtered through the now thickening canopy amongst still standing trees, he could see millions upon millions of droplets swirling amongst themselves. He couldn't help but smirk, happy to see some activity in the world, however small.

He had walked for what seemed like hours, but had no bearing amongst the trees to know what time of day it was or whichever direction he was going. He tried to focus on the horizon in front of him, brought closer by the forest, but he couldn't be certain he was going straight.

Although the chirping of unseen birds permeated through the canopy and the air now massaged gently against his bare skin by way of a small breeze, the landscape seemed not to change. One after another the trees spread out amongst each other in all directions with no indication they would end.

It was the same of the forest floor, continually bathed in soft rotting leaves that formed a scungy film between his toes as they churned with every monotonous step. Sweeping the leaves aside to find solid ground beneath often only yielded more leaves in advanced stages of decay, to the point of a thick swamp-like mixture. It stank whenever he disturb the mush beyond a certain point and he had no desire to plunge deeper in the hope of eventually finding rock or soil or whatever else may be its foundation. He was then thankful the layer of fresher leaves on top was thick enough for him to walk on without his feet plunging into the disgusting slush again and continued on his way.

The trees then became the subject of his attention as he studied them in greater detail. They were all tall and straight like a pine tree, towering over him to the point the back of his head touched between his shoulders before he could see the upper most branches through the dense foliage. The canopy was high up, beginning amongst the top of the tree and consisted of relatively large pointed green leaves. Peering through the branches, he could finally make out the movement of birds fluttering between neighbouring tree tops. They were little brown orbs, stubby and fat and plentiful. There must have been hundreds of the little creatures in one tree alone, but it was hard to tell as they socialised rapidly, never staying in the same place for long.

Looking up the long tree trunk, he was curious to see a disturbance in the rough bark and stepped around for a better view. From the side he could see a lizard nestled in a small break in the bark, preening itself. It suddenly froze, having detected him and watched with one beady black eye on the side of its face. The lizard suddenly seemed to change colour, shifting from the tree's brown bark to a pale white, blending in with the broken sunlight that cascaded behind it.

Awestruck, he stepped back around to view the little creature from another angle, but the lizard was startled and quickly scampered up the tree and disappeared from sight.

Gone.

Smiling, he continued on walking, scanning around curiously for more of the little lizards and whatever else besides. With his attention diverted, he was not alerted to the rustle of leaves behind him.

"Halt!"

He froze on the spot and suddenly felt the urge to urinate right then and there.

"Turn around slowly. I have an arrow notched."

He turned as asked, but for his feet having difficulty doing as they were commanded and moved in jerked motions, betraying his surprise and fear. Finally he turned around sufficiently to see the man who addressed him. The man's eyes stared intently down the shaft of an arrow pulled to tension in a large bow. His eyes fixed on the arrow's metal head. It looked very sharp indeed.

"Identify yourself!"

Try as he might, he couldn't remove his eyes from the dreaded arrow enough to see the bowman wielding it. He quivered with fear and did not notice a warm trickle of urine down his leg. His mind screamed at his mouth to move, but it may as well have demanded a stone do the same.

The bowman aiming the arrow tensed, drawing it back even further and barked, "I said, identify yourself."

Finally, his tongue awoke and between dry coughs he managed to croak, "I dunno where I am. I'm a stranger here." The fact that he had just used his own voice for the first time went unnoticed.

The bowman noted his quarry's obvious discomfort as he held the arrow ready, bolstering his own confidence. He didn't need his target to know he had never fired an arrow at someone before. If he kept him talking, hopefully his partner would be able to resolve the standoff before his arm tired and he let the arrow fly limply into the ground, "A stranger, hm?"

"Yeah." He said. The term "Stranger" was a queer name, but he decided absently to adopt it. The idea of having a name, however abstract, was reassuring in that instant. "Who are you?"

"None of your business."

"Where am I?"

"Keep still, do not move. Be quiet."

The Stranger froze up again, his eyes still locked on the arrow currently pointed at what he estimated was his stomach. He couldn't help but hope the arrow would fly true if it was ever released, and not dip slightly mid flight and lodge somewhere more important in his person. His hands absently moved to protect himself.

"Keep your hands up!" the bowman shouted.

"Sorry." The Stranger cried, maintaining his hands over his head and grimaced upon noticing too late he had pissed himself. "Sorry."

Whatever embarrassment he felt was short lived as a rock was carefully hurled from an unseen hand and struck the Stranger inn the back of the head heavily. It caused no pain, rather mercifully plunging the target into an immediate state of unconsciousness. The Stranger wobbled on his feet as some primal instinct beneath wakefulness fought futilely to keep him upright but soon failed as he tumbled limply onto the soft forest floor.

All was darkness, but there was no whirlpool. It was a peaceful experience as the black void retreated from a single point and expended rapidly until it caused discomfort. Upon absent commands, the light disappeared intermittently. Comprehension came quickly this time, and the Stranger willed himself awake.

He could feel a roughness beneath his body and especially his wrists. It was awkward and uncomfortable and everything felt out of place, as though pulled away from where it should be. His mind was in a similar predicament, feeling several sizes too large for his skull and aching in a dull throb.

The scene was blurred as sunshine attacked acutely sensitive retinas. Even as he closed his eyes and passed a hand in front of his face as a shield, his eyes burned and bright splotches of light danced in time with a heavy pulse that _thump thumped_ in his ears. As before, a quiet notion informed him that he was somewhere new and that he was not alone. It felt a colossal effort, but he managed to sit himself up and appraise his new surroundings through still squinting eyes.

He noticed immediately a foreign sense of weight at his wrists and ankles which revealed themselves to be manacles. They were heavy and chained together and clattered noisily as he steadied himself on the floor which also revealed it self to be the bed of a moving horse cart. He eyes were still too fragile to absorb the road and surrounding landscape as it meander away beneath him, but the gentle rocking of the cart was enough to provide the most necessary of explanations.

He also felt curiously hot even as he felt the air cool the sweat on his brow. Everywhere suddenly burned in an itch and those places he expected to be open and free were constricted. He was wearing a rough hessian garb that fitted his body as comfortably as a snake wound around a rabbit. Immediately he wanted to tear it off, but was only stopped by the thought that someone must have dressed him while he was unconscious and for the cart to be moving someone had to be driving it.

Turning his head, he saw a man sitting at the head of the cart dressed in absurdly shiny steel armour holding the reins and smiling humorously at him. It was not a mocking smile, not that of a snake about to eat the mouse it caught. Rather it seemed genuinely warm and the Stranger's headache suddenly seemed to recede into the background.

"Good afternoon, friend. I trust you are not too uncomfortable."

The man tilted his head as he spoke and the sun caught a edge of his helmet, blinding the Stranger painfully and signalling the return of his pounding headache. The Stranger tried to reply with a polite query, but his mouth was so dry, it only came out as a cough.

"Relax, friend. You are safe for the moment. I am a District Guard. I'm taking you to Middle Chapter for processing. We will sort this mess out quickly I trust."

"Out… sort…. what?" The Stranger's head was not clearing as quickly as he would have liked. Instead of several sizes too small, his head now only felt oversized by one measure.

"Sit, my friend. Let your blood work its way to your brain. There that is better." He turned back and supervised the horse.

"What's going on? Where am I?"

The sergeant continued on happily, "You were knocked out by some rangers. They were patrolling for fire ants. Insidious pests. And they happened upon yourself and knocked you out with a rock. Now then, we may as well dispose of the details of your story to pass the time. Do you want to get started?"

The Stranger frowned, "What exactly do you want to hear?"

"Let us begin at the beginning. What is your name?"

"Don't know."

"Alright then. Where are you from?"

"Don't know."

"Where are your clothes?"

"Don't know."

The guard turned, looking at his prisoner with dry humour pulling his lips to a smirk. "Well, that is how it is going to be then, is it?"  
"Well, what's your name?"

"Sergeant Polter." He replied coolly, before smirking again ever so slightly and turning back once more to the horse. It was a solid looking animal, built for slow gaits and heavy loads and seemed not the least bit interested in hurrying itself even for the light flick of the reins. "What is yours?"

"I told you, I don't know. I don't even know if I've got one."

"Why is that?"

"I don't fucking know!" The Stranger shouted, impatiently. He suddenly wished to thrust forward and push the guard off the cart and beneath the horse's hooves. He needed answers, not condescending questions.

"Well, that is not going to help your cause. Cursing like that is an offence. An uptight officer would have justification for putting you in jail just for that. But I am not uptight, am I?"

The Stranger was again reminded of the feeling of being a rabbit at the mercy of a smiling snake. His temper was quickly settled. "I guess not. Sorry."

Polter accepted the apology as though it was merely the required passing of one event to produce another. Stories from prisoners professing not to know anything were common enough, and he usually played games to attempt to unveil inconsistencies and piece together slivers of truth. Either it could be extracted through civil questioning or he could be turned over to the chief interrogator and his fists and boots would achieve the same. Polter never liked the latter. It usually meant failure on his part, a slight on his abilities. He continued on.

"So then, my friend. You do not know where you are from, but did you know where you were going?"

"Well, not really. I was just wandering around when those guys got the jump on me."

"'Got the jump on me'. That is a funny phrase. I have not heard that one before. I do not think I have heard that accent before either. Where did you say you were from again?" Polter teased.

The Stranger felt anger rising like bile shooting up his throat but swallowed it down and spoke slowly through gritted teeth. "I told you. I don't know. I don't know where I came from and I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what this place is. Do you mind helping me out here and telling me where I am?"

"This is North Road. It is a supply road that meets up with a farming district on the edge of the forest where you were found. We are heading south to Chronicle."

"What's Chronicle?"

"Capital city of this country." Polter twisted around and stared at the Stranger as he gently flicked the reins, however much the horse ignored him. He hesitated as he looked at his curious prisoner and it struck him that the convenient gangster's amnesia façade might not quite apply in the case. The dejected hang of the man's shoulders and the slack posture, even taking into account the pull of the manacles, suggested he was genuinely upset. "Do you know where you are?"

"No." Whatever anger that burned at the base of his throat disappeared as he felt his eyes well up. He tried to keep the tears inside much like his temper but it was a struggle. He supposed he was a pitiful sight for the guard, at first thinking of himself a trapped rabbit and now a lost child. Suddenly he wished for his mother, whoever and wherever she was. However as soon as the thought popped into his head, he shivered with involuntary disgust and anger returned. He needed answers. "Can you please tell me what's going on?"

Polter was quite surprised by the Stranger, and entertained the notion that his story might well be the truth after all. No one he had interrogated before who used the excuse of amnesia had reacted like this before with such despondency. Coupled with this was the fact that the man's accent and manner of speaking were unlike any he had heard before.

"Like I said, this is the North Road, and we are going to Chronicle. It is the capital city of this country, Clondast. Everything here is named after books because Chronicle is home to the Grand Library. It is the biggest in the world. There are many scholars here, historians and clergy. The Society of Practical Magic is headquartered here as well."

"Magic?" the Stranger remarked with surprise.

"Yes." Polter said with a warm smirk. "They are the richest people in the land. Very influential and very mysterious. A very powerful lot in most senses of the word." The Stranger soaked up the explanation with a bemused fascination. "Just south of Chronicle are the Spiral Mountains. Named after spiral book binding. Not sure why, but I digress. They effectively cut Clondast in half and shelter it from the rest of the world. There's one approved path through though. A tollway managed by the Magical Society that links Chronicle and other smaller towns and cities with Running Ink. There is a large port there, hence the name. Water? Makes ink run? You understand the joke? That is where most trade comes through and is in fact a much larger city than Chronicle. Chronicle is only regarded as a capital city because that is where the government resides. Much better sheltered."

The Stranger absorbed it all as best he could. It was confusing and foreign. None of it made sense or felt comfortable, but at least it was a start. It was nice to know where he was and where he was going had a name. "You said something before about 'Middle Chapter'. What's that?"

"Ah yes. Middle Chapter is a prison east of Chronicle. After I process you at Chronicle District Guard head office, that is where I will take you to stand trial and, if so decided, serve your time."

"But I haven't done anything wrong." The Stranger shouted, angry again. "I didn't hurt anybody. I didn't steal anything. I didn't do anything. I swear!"

Polter clicked his tongue, "Well, see that is not entirely correct, my friend. On face value you have committed two separate offences. One: trespass. Two: indecent exposure. I do not think you can argue with either of those."

"But… but I didn't know where I was. I didn't know anything."

"Nevertheless, you were in a place you were not authorised to be and you were naked. Can you dispute that?"

The Stranger sighed dejectedly, unable to refute the simple logic. "Fuck."

"That is three offences now, friend. I warned you before. Watch your language." Polter barked.

"But…"

"Some advice for you, friend. This is most likely for your own good, but you should probably just keep your mouth shut."

The Stranger sank down onto the rough wooden floor, and let his head bob tiredly on his shoulders as the wagon followed the undulations of the road.

Although he had the benefit of a brief explanation of the land, that's all it was. Exceedingly brief and near useless. He still had no clue what was happening and no clue to his past. Did he have any hope of this trial setting him free? He doubted it. As Polter said, it seemed entirely reasonable to say that he had technically committed at least two offences which would surely result in some degree of punishment. He doubted that his answers of "I don't know" would help matters either.

He ran his hands through his unfamiliar hair and felt immeasurably old, in spite of not knowing whatever his age might truly be.

He took some calm from the scenery and decided to make the most of the immediate peace to study the landscape. He was a stranger in a strange land and whatever information he could discern would do nothing but help his cause, however minutely.

The road stretched down ahead of them down the horizon. It was not a smooth affair, heavily disturbed by the impressions of countless hooves and wagon wheels long since crusted into place.

The surrounding landscape was much smoother however, which began from the roadside with large tufts of glowing green grass and rolled away in all directions in a series of gentle hills dotted with cattle and wind breaking trees. Peering into the distance he thought he could see forest on the horizon's edge, but couldn't be sure. He pondered whether to ask Polter about it, but decided not to risk triggering some other 'offence'. Who knew what laws this place was subject to? he wondered.

Small dirt pathways peeled off from the main road in places, snaking their way between the hills and disappearing from view. He supposed they led to farms. As the time slowly drifted by, the pathways became more frequent, but they were still deserted.

Finally, he settled his eyes on Polter, studying his mannerisms and clothing. The guard sat on the wagon's crude front seat relaxed and easy, staring off into the distance in front of them absently flicking the reins out of habit. It appeared very much that he was daydreaming.

The armour and clothes he wore were intimidating and looked heavy. The man's broad frame seemed to accept the burden of the metal suit without any particular signs of discomfort or fatigue. Beneath plates of shining steel were hundreds of interlocking coils of chain mail. They covered him from his elbows to his knees and stopped at the neck.

He had taken off his helmet at some unnoticed point to soak up the sun and revealed a shock of ginger hair curiously bushy in some places and thin in others. A closer examination revealed lumps of scar tissue were the cause of the barer patches.

Polter seemed to feel the Stranger's curious eyes on him and turned and smiled knowingly. "My scars? Would you believe I received all but one of those in a single night? I was still new and thought myself invincible. I charged into a gambling den without any comrades and was promptly disarmed and beaten to a pulp in an alley somewhere. They knew better than to kill me, but it was enough to teach me a valuable lesson."

"What was that?"

"Patience." Polter turned back to the reins.

The Stranger reflected on the short and terse conversation they had carried and it struck him how Polter had been exactly that. Patient.

The Stranger had no doubt that Polter could have swatted him at any time with a steel covered back hand or driven a toe into his ribs. There was no one in sight and he was a prisoner after all. What was there to stop him? Polter was an honourable man it seemed. A better man than himself.

"Did you get those gambler's after all?"

"Two months later. I disguised myself, infiltrated their network and learned of a rather large and important shipment of narcotics. This time, half of the Guard was there and the mafia nearly destroyed without a drop of blood spilled unless you count some cursory bruising. They never knew it was me."

The Stranger swallowed his bitterness, discarding it over the side of the wobbling cart and into the crusted mud. "Sorry about before. I suppose you've had more polite prisoners than myself before."

Polter turned and stared at him, surprised at his prisoner's humility and casually accepted the apology with a shrug of his metal shoulders. "Not really. Most brigands have no class or manners and are entirely unreasonable. I prefer to use the difficulty they present in my favour. A criminal who insults my mother has another charge added to his name to ensure it takes longer for me to encounter him again. A criminal who spits on me is only providing the means by which I can polish my armour. Did you notice how shiny it is?"

The Stranger smiled.

"One aspect of your story is causing me a minor grief, however. What do your tattoos mean?"

The Stranger cast his eyes on his forearms again and pulled up his hessian jumper to reveal the enigmatic scrawl on his stomach. He tried again to understand them, but quickly gave up. "I don't remember getting them and I don't remember anything about my past. I don't know their context or what they're supposed to mean. I can't even read the ones on my stomach."

Polter pursed his lips in thought. "Nor I, but it's the ones I can read on your forearms that puzzle me. 'Giveth and Taketh Away'. The Society of Practical Magic and the clergy speak in such a manner. It is an older version of the language you and I speak now. I wonder if they might have some inclination of your situation. Are you an escaped member?"

"No idea. What would it mean if I was?"

Polter's relaxed smirk disappeared. "If you had abandoned whatever order you belonged to as an apprentice, I would imagine you would be executed for desertion of your schooling and breach of contract."

"Oh." The Stranger gulped. 'Well, like I said. I don't know anything about them. What do you think will happen to me at my trial for those charges you told me about before?"

Polter relaxed again, settling back into the regular rocking of the cart, "I expect a year at most."

"What exactly will happen?"

"You will be presented before a robed judge who you are to refer to as 'your honour' and you will be asked to enter a plea of either guilty or innocent. I would suggest 'guilty' as it would lessen your time and everybody's inconvenience. The court will then go through the motions of what happened, hearing testimony from myself on behalf of those rangers and then yourself. He will then deliberate and hand down his judgment, which is usually a rapid process. He will most likely decide your fate within a few scant seconds of the case's completion. Oh yes, one thing." Polter turned around and started the Stranger in the eyes, ensuring he had his complete attention. "For the judicial record, you will be required to state your name. I know you profess to not know it, but I would advise you to pick one. Whatever is your fancy. Otherwise, you will be charged for contempt of justice."

"I've got to pick a name?"

"Yes. What will you call yourself?"

"Um." He stammered. A name quickly popped into his head. "Xavier." It dribbled off the end of his tongue with a strange familiarity he couldn't place. He couldn't remember where it came from, but it felt sufficiently comfortable. "Yeah, Xavier."

Page 9


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It was not long before the North Road was bustling with people as they passed through an outlying settlement. It was a warehousing town where farmers congregated to sell their stock to brokers. Polter explained it all as Xavier listened, staring at the sights like a fascinated child.

It was strange to see the small mass of people file in around them as they approached the warehouses and then left them behind. Xavier wasn't sure what he expected to see, but they way they moved with purpose and familiarity made him feel uncomfortable. Their presence only served to emphasise how out of place he was, like a fish removed from a pond and cast into the ocean. That he didn't belong here.

Nonetheless he watched and studied them. The farmers were easy to pick out, crusted in dirt and all lean from exercise whereas the brokers and other townsfolk were dressed in cleaner clothes and walked with a heavier plod in their step.

A man dressed in a cleanly pressed pair of blue trousers and a resplendent red shirt called to Polter, ignoring Xavier. Polter returned his greeting with a nod and they continued on. Xavier tried to establish eye contact with the man, but he turned before he had a chance and continued on his way as if he were invisible.

The town was quickly left behind and long caravans of horse carts joined in behind them. They were much bigger in every sense of the word, bearing great piles of grain, and fruits and vegetables packed neatly into crates. Their horses were large and muscular and moved with an urgency that Polter's horse seemed entirely untroubled by. However far behind the caravans lagged, they soon passed and barely any of the drivers or caravan hands met Xavier's eyes however politely he waved to them. Whether they were wary or disinterested he could not tell. Probably both, he decided.

His sagging spirits were quickly lifted as they crested a small hill and the stone walls and towers of Chronicle revealed themselves in the near distance. His excitement grew with every step of Polter's lazy horse as more of the city came into view.

It was as much like an overgrown castle as Polter described and seemed to fit almost exactly with the picture Xavier had in his mind. A high stone wall surrounded the city, with battlements stationed atop at regular intervals from which guards stared down with hidden boredom. Three great towers rose from amidst the city centre like long spider's legs, close enough to be linked together at the top by three bridges. It looked as much like a piece of spider's web.

"That's the home of the Magical Society." Polter commented. "Three towers for their three principles, whatever they are. Not something the average person knows of or is supposed to know of."

They arrived at the city gates and were casually yet pleasantly waved through as the caravans waited in line to be inspected. The almost relaxing wobble of the cart over the sanded dirt road was replaced by a harsh shuddering as the wheels bounced over unyielding cobblestones. Xavier's chains rattled noisily and advertised his presence to loiterers and passing bodies who finally seemed to take notice. They stared at him with a mild hatred burning in the whites of their eyes. Polter raised his hand and pointed stiffly at a man who began to raise a potato over his shoulder, ready to toss it. The would-be attacker pouted his lips in mock frustration and turned away, disinterested and melted into the bustle.

Xavier quickly grew used to the perturbed stares as they continued down wide streets. It gave him an opportunity to study the many buildings around him, which were a sturdy mixture of timber planks and neatly carved stone. Shops, inns and houses all gelled together in one great structural mass as the cart continued vibrating along the cobble stones. It was difficult to tell them all apart and most of them towered overhead four or five stories high and almost blocked out the sun.

It was such a strange juxtaposition compared to the open ranges outside the city. Everywhere had been nature and dirt and mud, yet here it was ordered and clean and designed. Strangely though, it made him think of the forest. In both he had been surrounded by neat structures that towered overhead. In place of birds chirping it was idle conversation and haggling. In place of an unpleasant bed of stinking leaves it was an unpleasant bed of jarred stones. One pleasure was simply replaced with another as were any corresponding inconveniences.

Not better or worse, just different.

The smell was different however. The forests and fields smelled pleasant and fresh, yet here, despite the apparent cleanliness at a first glance, filth began to reveal itself. Beneath the shining dress hems and pressed trousers of the people the street's gutters carried small rivers of brown stink. The precise angles of the timber struts gave way to minor rotting or chips in the edges. Bodies loitering on corners or sitting upon stoops were whispering suspiciously amongst themselves while scanning the human traffic with hungry eyes. A beggar sat upon one step, his left arm missing at the shoulder hidden behind a flap of crusted material with an empty chipped cup cradled in his functional right hand.

Strangely though, the details were welcome rather than repellent. _Have I been here before?_

Abruptly, Polter stopped the cart. A large man dressed in similar armour appeared at the foot of the cart, staring at Xavier. "What is this one in for?" he grunted. Whereas Polter was intimidating yet unthreatening, this man was entirely the former. He was brutish and heavy on his feet. His armour shone in the sun with less intensity than Polter's also, and it covered most of his body leaving anyone unable to tell whether his bulk was due to thick muscle or old fashioned portliness, or some mixture of the two. He looked down at his new prisoner with cold eyes, deciding whether he should be amused or bored.

"Trespass, Goren."

Goren shot an arm forward and grabbed Xavier tightly at the elbow. Instinct wanted him to struggle free but better sense kept him calm as the man released the anchor from the cart's floor and dragged him off. Panic welled as he stumbled in behind with the guard's fingers still locked around his arm. Polter was suddenly nowhere to be seen.

Goren pulled him wordlessly through a hallway that quickly darkened as sunlight was left behind. Low burning torches hung against the stone walls between securely locked oak doors reinforced with iron bars. The torches offered little light and no warmth. The floor was dusted with gravel that crunched under Goren's boots and stuck painfully into Xavier's bare feet. He lurched from side to side and winced with every step. This was not something he was used to.

"You are a soft one. Bull Dog will like you." He said with a raspy chuckle.

Xavier thought to ask what he was talking about, but reconsidered preferring both not to risk triggering some wayward offence or earning a belligerent slap.

They passed through an open doorway as Goren grumbled with other guards. An iron barred wall slid open and they stepped into an open area of stone steps and holding cells built into the walls of a lower level. Xavier could tell people were captive within only because he could either hear them grumbling, pleading or rustling or could smell their body odour or faecal matter. Goren continued to drag Xavier in behind him like a sack of potatoes, irrespective of whether he could walk or not and stopped outside one of the cells. He pulled out a key, opened the heavy iron barred door and roughly shoved Xavier inside the dark confines without saying a word or showing the slightest hint of concern. With a loud smash, the cell door was closed on him and locked.

Xavier was struggling to keep his nerve and almost let out a terrified scream when he sensed he was not alone in the small dark space.

XXX

The morning sun was only now cresting the tops of the local mountain range as a hopeful and hungry set of eyes watched them, paying no heed to the glare. The man's fingers played absently with grains of sand and tiny stones that lived in the worn crevices of the battlements as he waited for the morning report. The station commander was a punctual man and he would be due in a little over two minutes yet. It was a chance to soak up a little more of the morning and marvel in the beauty of the landscape, but he couldn't help but turn his eyes across the seas towards home and smile with anticipation.

Duht's Candle was his homeland and as such, was loyally regarded as the finest, most powerful and most cultured and it was no one's place to say otherwise. Despite his own bias, it was not an inaccurate opinion as it indeed was the most powerful of all countries, the most militaristic. It was the gateway to the Old World where the man now stood in the solitary fort in the entire region.

The Old World was a dangerous place. A magnificent continent at the top of the world that was as untamed as it was mysterious. There was no indigenous human population, instead home to all sorts of monsters and demons not seen anywhere else throughout the known world. It was also a profitable place if one knew what he was doing.

Takar believed himself a prudent and methodical man, with ambition to match. Like most men he dreamed of power and was proud of his current achievements. He was a special advisor to the king back across the sea and appointed leader of the detachment of soldiers beneath his feet.

He was again reminded of his station as the anticipated commander arrived precisely on time, announcing his arrival quietly with a gentle scuff of his boots.

Takar turned from the sunrise and looked at him with a mild respect and waited.

The man spoke as he stood to attention. "Head Takar, there is little to report this morn. We are waiting for the scouts to report back."

"How are the provisions?"

"Stockmaster Aldrin still estimates enough provisions to see out the next month, although the blacksmiths have requested a load of tin on the next supply shipment."

"Allow it. What else? When are the scouts due back?"

The commander hesitated for the slightest of moments, inadvertently answering the question before he spoke, "They were due back before sunrise, milord."

"Are they dead or simply tardy?" Takar asked with a piercing smirk.

The commander gulped, "They are a disciplined unit, milord. I expect they have encountered difficulties. They have not reported back late before."

"Give them until the morrow before we write them off."

"Um. Milord, I would suggest three days tolerance. Their delay suggests they may have found something."

"That is precisely the reason why they should be written off. Why have they not sent one back with word if the others remain? There have been no storms, the weather is well. If they are as disciplined as you seem to believe, then they are dead already. Fools."

The commander stuttered a small defensive reply before regaining his composure and changing the subject. "Milord, what are your orders for today?"

Takar crossed his wiry arms across his chest, hiding them beneath a fold of his flowing white cotton robe. "If the scouts are not yet returned by the morrow, assemble a raiding party for departure in three days time. We will retrace the scouts' steps. I want to find whatever it is they have found."

"Will milord join the expedition?"

"No. Take a crystal marker so I can be summoned if required."

"Yes, milord."

"Dismissed."

The commander quickly turned and left down the tower stairs, eager to get away. Takar unfolded his arms and resumed staring out over the battlements to sea. He absently watched the sun waver and dance in a blur on the calm water. Small waves toppled themselves on the rocks below and withdrew without fuss or noise. It was peaceful up here, and beautiful. He had always lived by the shore back home, ever since he could remember and always felt a slight discomfort at the notion of leaving it to explore inland. However, the Old World's interior could also be a beautiful place in so many different ways. The landscapes varied heavily, from the gaping canyons to the east, the lush tangle of forest to the north, and the swooping desert plains in the west. At least, these were the places that were known of and none of them had been explored in any great detail. Death always seemed to present itself a potent inconvenience. For the last twenty years, every time an attempt was made to explore a new area, at least one person died. Whether through disease, in battle or sheer mishap, the Old World played the role of tax collector. It seemed not to matter how careful the planning, nor how heavily the risks were mitigated, even the slightest stabs into the darkness of the Old World required a toll be paid, however token.

It appeared the toll had been extracted yet again. Takar bit his lip both out of slight frustration, but also excitement. Those scouts were supposed to stick to a route previously explored, but he hoped that they had not. He hoped they had found something as opposed to something having found them.

However heavy the toll of human life the Old World took, it held in its shadows untold riches. Remnants of the ancient past, artefacts of power or beauty, precious materials and animals of all sorts of ferocity and form.

The King had sent Takar here again after the last expedition under Ser Dolton's direction brought back over 200 kilograms of various precious artefacts. From bejewelled weapons to strange objects no one could quite discern, they were in various stages of decay, but each valuable. Some were even magical, and quickly snapped up by the Magical Society for absurd amounts of money. A cave had been found, hidden by thick growing vines in a previous mapped part of the forested north it revealed itself a tomb. No one had the slightest clue for whom the dusty sarcophagus within commemorated, nor decipher the etchings in the walls around it. There were only eyes for the various items of treasure scattered around the tomb and the crude traps designed to guard them long ago rusted shut or decayed to uselessness.

As it always does, the Old World demanded a price in human life and it was paid by Ser Dolton himself, succumbing to a disease that ate the flesh from his bones. Before the voyage back over the sea, his face had fallen off and his eyes burst. His constant screams melted down to gurgling whispers and finally breath left him completely a day before arrival home, quarantined in his cabin. His corpse was put to fire as soon as they touched the docks. It was a wonder no one else showed symptoms. If anyone other than Ser Dolton had even so much as displayed the most minor of sores, they would have been thrown overboard without hesitation.

Ser Dolton's service was duly noted, and his former likeness carved out on the multitude of stone busts in the Hall of Honoured Service in Duht Castle. A replacement was quickly sought and found as Takar stepped forward. For nearly a decade he had served as a King's Priest, three of which as Head Priest and now it was time to climb further up the greased ladder towards the King's right hand.

With this in mind, Takar pulled his eyes away from the dreamy horizon, away from home and back to the reality of stone and flesh at his disposal and hoped that the scouts had indeed found something worthwhile.

Furthermore, it would be quite the honour to return home unscathed, whatever they brought. The first man to escape the Old World toll.

"Milord."

Takar woke quickly, pricking his ears to attention even if his eyes still crusted together with sleep. "What is it?"

"The scouts, milord. One had returned. Willock. He demands to see you at once."

Takar was instantly on his feet and barked at the commander. "Demands? He demands nothing! I'll have him lashed for such offence."

"Pardons, milord. A poor choice of words on my part. He needs to see you urgently. He is in such a state. I swore he had no colour on him. The front guards almost mistook him for a ghost and shot him on the spot."

"He will wish they had if this urgent counsel comes to nothing. Get my shoes."

Takar was furious, even as the commander spoke defence for the returned scout. It did no good as the priest stomped through the barely illuminated stone halls angrily, grinding his teeth and already planning how to shout the upstart back into his place. But with each step, Takat felt a niggling tug in his bowels.

By the time they reach the heavy door for the main hall, Takar's grinding teeth had settled back into place and his anger dissipated. Something was not right.

The commander pushed the double doors open for him and the hall was revealed. A large space during the day, the creeping shadows from the low burning torches overhead made it seem as quarter as big. Normally such a hall would be decorated with tapestries depicting famous battles or statues of long dead heroes would stand strongly and solemnly in front of stained glass windows, with oversized weapons in hand and stone hair flowing, but the fort was a functional place with room for few luxuries. Instead timber beams and the dancing light of the torches proved the only things to draw the eye from the cold stone.

But Takar's eyes instantly found the scout and his uneasiness only grew. Old World scouts were a hardy lot of men, built for stealth and speed and used to the discomfort of fast travel. He'd expected a thin man, not stout like the soldiers that guarded the walls. Only the man's face was visible, his hood pulled back to show black hair dirty and tangled with mud, highlighting all the more the lack of colour in the scout's gaunt face. Truly he was bone white and his skin so drawn to the bone he was a skull with eyes. His eyes stared vacantly ahead in a trance, but he seemed to notice Takar's approach and snapped back to attention, looking upon his lord with terrified eyes.

The soldiers following in behind Takar and those standing guard about the man backed away, eager to let Takar take care of him. Nearly all of them absently had their hands either near or resting on the pommel of their swords and would not look away, eyes fixed and looking for the slightest hint of danger.

The scout rose, sending the already wavering hands of the nearest guards around their sword hilts, several flashes of steel shone from scabbards and settled only a little as he kneeled.

"What is it?" Takar said quickly, not out of impatience, rather urgency. "What has happened?"

The scout wavered on his knee, grappling with what to say.

"Speak up. I care not for sugared words. Sit down. What happened?" Takar said firmly, but waited as Willock drew a steadying breath and sat cross legged on the floor.

"We followed the set track, northeast along the Cracked Track between the forests and the canyons. We saw nothing unusual until two days ago. Jerole, spotted movement to the east from a hill and we went to investigate. We found the aftermath of a battle of sorts. Trolls and Skinner Lions shattered and dead."

"Then what?"

Willock swallowed and dropped his eyes down to his hands. "I do not remember, milord. I can only next remember finding the rest of the scouting party dead around me just like the animals at my feet. Even my own horse. I do not know what happened. I….. I ran back. I did not stop."

"All dead? What do you mean? What happened?"

The poor scout shrivelled into the floor, ashamed. "I cannot remember."

"Think, man!" Takar shouted.

"I…. I…" Willock stammered and his eyes grew wide in terror and confusion. He began to scream, a high pitched noise and wavered with convulsions. He lurched forward and fell to the floor and scrambled for Takar's boots like a drowning man fumbling for purchase. He flailed and screamed as Takar and the guards all backed away fearful and befuddled. The poor man continued to convulse, tying himself into knots only to free himself, and clasp together again. His face was burning pink and veins bulged on his neck and forehead.

Takar held his step, gathering his wits as he felt the uneasy sensation from before intensify and readied himself should a spell prove necessary. He didn't know which one, a defensive or offensive conjuration, but held their words ready.

The scout wrapped his hands around his head as though to stop it splitting apart and look up into Takar's eyes in his pain. Tears of blood streamed down to his chin and poured onto the stone floor.

Suddenly he stopped, resuming his cross legged seating position and continued to stare back at Takar with cold eyes, the whites stained red beneath the bloody tears. He smiled, amused in some condescending and cruel way and spoke with a high pitched voice. "**We know you are here. We see you soon."**

Takar recognised it at once, even if he was taken aback. The young scout was possessed, a demon occupying his shell. He had felt its presence, but had not enough mind to discern it. His nostrils flared in anger, at much at his own failure as the unholy trespass sitting before him.

The words came almost without thinking, and he bent the fingers of his right hand. Hot energy contorted his knuckles and joints and pulled forward, wanting release and he gladly gave it. Grunting the last of the short incantation, he shoved his hand forward towards his target. Yet the scout simply sat and laughed, even leaning forward to welcome it.

The energy leaped forward and struck, enveloping all around him in an instant and he was bathed in a green fire. All of the guards recoiled at the spectacle, but it was over quickly. Takar did not so even much a blink throughout as he saw the scout's body blacken and fall to the floor in an ashen heap, bones, steel and all.

A mild laughter wafted through the hall and out a window, but left everybody frozen in place with fear.

The commander was the first to summon enough courage to move and he spoke to Takar in a whimper. "What happened, milord?"

Takar stood still, but not from fear. His mind was racing. "Rouse the guards. All of them. No man may sleep tonight."

Page 4


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Takar stood at the forward battlements of the fortress, unease creasing across his face and his hands in his pockets to hide their subtle shaking. The men around him were all seasoned fighters, having served in prior battles and seen friends and enemies die around them. They knew the smell and taste of blood and fear and they knew their leader was scared.

Ever since the scout had died in a green fire in the main hall and the soldiers had been called to battle stations and the main gate closed, a thick mist descended around the fortress like a drifting moat. Even the night's full moon could not penetrate it. The haze beyond the main gate's plateau played on everybody's imagination. As much as camaraderie helped settle the men into a shaky bravado, stories of what was thought to come seemed to negate it.

Takar pulled his hand out of his pocket and fiddled with the straps of his plated leather vest. He hated wearing bulky armour, but military doctrine dictated he wear something to protect against arrow fire, even if he doubted any was forthcoming.

The station commander meandered through a small sea of metal bodies, muttering curses as he pushed through to report in. The men moved out of the way as best they could. They respected him as much as they cared too, thankful that whilst he commanded from the safety of the rear, he worked the archers harder than the footmen, thus lessening the chance of troop loss. They thought him considerate and smart in the art of war. Those closer to him suspected it had more to do with a low opinion of the footmen.

Finally he finished threading through the crowd and bowed curtly before Takar who acknowledged him with a nod.

"Archers are ready, milord. Every man is at his post."

"Thank you. Dismissed." Takar grunted, still staring out into the fog.

It refused to shift, dancing around amongst itself so thickly that individual droplets of water could be seen glistening in the moonlight. The grounds surrounding the fortress were long ago thin forest and shrubbery, but they were routinely cut down and cleared to ensure visibility in all directions for hundred of metres. Sentries in the towers monitored the grounds night and day. But Takar stood quietly fuming as the line of sight was now reduced to a fraction of what it used to be. The pale light was swallowed by the fog barely 20 metres from the walls, almost uniformly in every direction. The exactness of the fog did not go unnoticed with Takar, heavily suspecting it was not natural. He tried to sense some sort of magical field manipulating the wind and humidity, but frustratingly he found none.

Although he was educated and trained as a priest and magician, he knew enough of war tactics to see the obvious disadvantage should an assault take place.

Takar could hear the nearer men around him talking to themselves, muttering small curses, doubts and prayers. He turned his thoughts behind, towards the civilians in the township and remembered that several of the men had brought their families with them whilst they fulfilled their detachment. He wasn't sure whether this would turn those men to jelly or strengthen their resolve.

Turning around, he stared out towards the mist again and the noiseless night. No birds, no calls of distant dogs, not even any wind. Deathly still.

Takar turned and looked over the small army around him and looked for someone. He had seen him before, a young boy recently drafted into service for petty theft who barely had enough meat on his bones to wear his armour and not fall to the floor under the weight. Let alone carry and wield a sword.

Quickly his eyes found him and he smirked to see the boy standing a foot shorter than the men next to him and leaning on his sword like a beggar's stick. Their eyes met, and the youth's eyes widened with fear beneath the fringe of his ginger hair.

"You. Boy." Takar pointed at him and all turned to stare at him. The boy wilted and seemed to withdraw into his armour like a turtle. "Grab a torch and march out into that fog."

The young boy, nervous as he was almost fainted and turned milk white. His hands shook and his sword fell with a clang onto the boards. The men around him continued to stare at him, with a mixture of pity in their eyes and thankfulness that it wasn't them.

Takar's finger hadn't moved and neither had the boy. "Move!" Takar shouted, causing the young man to jolt out of his stilted shock and back away towards the stairs.

No one moved other than to watch the youth stumble down and across the yard, grabbing a sconce towards the gate. There was no sound besides the uneven clomp of his boots on the packed ground. Even his laboured gasping breaths could be heard.

Takar felt like shouting at him again to hurry up, but doubted it would help, rather that it would scare the boy further and cause him to flee into town. Mutiny was the last thing Takar needed now, so he waited patiently even as his teeth grinded. Finally, the boy reached the main gate to find it had already been opened slightly for him. The boy stared at it like he was a mouse about to step into the jaws of a snake and his feet froze again, but a swat from the gate captain sent his through. The boy yelped and nearly dropped the sconce as the gate shut behind him, strangely giving off an echo in the empty night air.

The men that smiled previously now couldn't help but feel sorry for the young one as they watched the small glow of the scone flicker back and forth in his shaking hands. Step by slow step he walked out towards the fog.

"I don not see nuthin. Can I come back now?" his small voice squeaked.

"Into the fog!" Takar shouted back.

But the boy wouldn't move.

"Move that little arse before I flay it off in the gallows!" the station commander shouted, causing the boy to flinch and stumble forward. The commander smiled to himself as he watch his young ward continue ever closer, bathing in the private accomplishment that the boy feared him more than Takar, but forgot it as the boy finally approached the edge of fog. "Like the end of the world." He thought to himself.

The boy lingered, unable to penetrate the wall. No one spoke or yelled at him, hanging on the silence and willing him to reach in. He turned, looking back at the fortress and seeing not people, but only helmets shining over the wall. No eyes.

No one to save him.

And so they all watched as the dejected lad, seemingly accepting whatever fate was to come his way, turn back to the mist and take a deliberate step into it. Expecting to see him slowly melt into the haze, instead they glimpsed a dark hand dart out, grab him by the neck and yank him inside into the darkness like a doll. The men gasped as they heard the youth's terrified screams reach into the night and die in a gurgling choke.

"Hold fast!" Takar shouted.

Then the fog lifted as though a great wind blew it away and he saw an army of ragged humanoid bodies standing in formation around the fortress where the fog had been. Broken, twisted and gnarled, they look up at him and those around him with dull eyes, shining white like the moon.

Rank on rank they stood, tens deep and perfectly still.

There were thousands of them.

Then they moved, pressing forward like a sea of insects, crashing into the castle walls and the gates before anyone had a mind to react, paralysed by shock and fear.

Takar pulled himself out the stunned trance and began shouting for the archers to rain arrows down on the throng. But even as he began calling everyone to arms, he could hear his men dying and the scream of bending steel as the main portcullis already began to buckle.

Arrows dived into the mass and were swallowed up without any noticeable effect. No one could see any bodies drop to the ground in death. The men at the main gate grappled frantically with the group that rushed the gate and stabbed through the portcullis openings, unsure what they were attacking.

The enemy attacked ferociously, pushing with such force and fury that individual enemies were soon pushed aside and replaced by others, disorientating the defenders.

"Oil!"

Takar shouted and the oil crews quickly cut the ropes to the pots that hung suspended at the edge of the walls. One by one they rained down burning hot liquid onto the sea of monsters, but there were none of the screams they were accustomed to hearing and none of the horde backed away in fear or agony.

Takar grunted with frustration and stepped forward to the edge of the wall. He looked down into the scrum and saw an endless swirling mix of bodies, all pushing towards the main gate and paying no heed to the archers above. They were mindless, determined.

He turned his eyes to the fighting at the gate and watched as a man stabbed through the portcullis, but his arm was latched onto and torn clean from his shoulder. The nearest of the monsters clamoured for the grisly prize and they fought amongst each other for it, snapping at it like dogs. The others attacked with renewed vigour.

Takar saw then the enemy. He knew what they were dealing with.

The undead.

Perpetually hungry for living flesh, they were once living men, women and even children that were reanimated back to non-life.

They had only ever been the subject of fanciful and horrible stories amongst warriors and children. Sightings of or contact with the undead had only been sporadically recorded back in the Great Library. The last account was a nearly illegible scribble hundreds of years old that was thought no more than a campfire tale.

But here they were now, by the thousands and threatening to overrun the fortress. Men, women and children would die horribly if he didn't act.

And then he saw the glisten of the oil still sizzling from below and closed his eyes.

He thought of Ser Dolton who had succumbed to a plague on the last trip from the Old World and his body burning away in the funeral pyre upon his eventual death. He chanted the necessary words and felt the tightening in his right arm coursing down to his fingertips, cracking and contorting through the bone. It always hurt so. The life of a magician was one of pain during the magic's gathering and bliss upon it's release which he felt now as he thrust his hand forward.

A shower of magical fire lit the night and fell upon the undead army. Quickly the flame met the oiled bodies and came alive as it raced from one to the next like a writhing snake. In only the shortest of moments, the flame turned into a pyre and then a firestorm, consuming the undead by the tens and then hundreds as the soldiers were forced back from the heat.

They stood within the safety of the castle defences and watched them burn, writhing in pain. The respite was sorely welcome, but no man could turn his eyes away. No man could block his ears from the horrible screams of the dead dying. It soured any chance of hearing a rallying cry in celebration of their enemy's destruction.

The fire continued to spread and roared like a wild beast. Takar couldn't see the army below through the flames, but heard an alarming cry from the soldiers next to him who recoiled as the flames shot up and took hold of the wooden boards by the battlements. The soldiers scattered and panicked as one soldier was consumed by the flames and roasted alive in his metal armour. His flesh dripped of his bones like caramel.

Takar pushed through the crowd, hearing the station commander yelling at the troops to hold their formation. Concentrating and withdrawing inside himself again, he uttered the necessary words silently, focusing his mind and felt the pain of another spell clutch at his heart. Fighting through the pain, he channelled it down through his shoulder, down his arm to his fist and let the bolt of energy release upon the dancing flames. A sharp gust of wind battered the boards, instantly killing the fire and shoving much of the weakened floor down to the ground below.

Even as the bliss of the magic receded and the men gathered their wits, other flames sprouted up in similar fashion, spilling over the battlements and into the castle. Already, the flames had wafted over in six separate places, engulfing his troops.

"This isn't right." He muttered and felt the pulse of another's magic buffeting against his being. Another magician was out there turning his spell against him. He should have known this would happen. Whoever had created the fog was doing this, he reasoned. Angry at himself, he sought to push the flames back again and challenge this unseen power, but the flames were too widespread and racing towards him.

The ranks broke as the men saw they were undone and pushed and shoved to retreat within the city. Takar was knocked down by the stampede, but quickly gathered himself and looked for the commander, but he was nowhere to be seen either. The castle walls were aflame and undefended. He looked for the portcullis and found it broken open with flames spilling through into the square below.

Gulping down the hot air, fearful he might faint, he joined the disorganised retreat.

The castle was lost.

But I am not, he reasoned and sought to cast another spell. He knew he was overexerting himself, but he had no choice. He would have liked time to rest and calm his mind better, but forced his will onto the new spell and worked through the pain as it grew exponentially in his chest.

It was difficult, both to ignore the pain and the danger of the racing fire behind him, but he revelled in it knowing his life was depending on this spell more than any other. All too quickly, the spell was formed and waiting in his hand and he flicked his fingers with deliberate delicacy.

With a sudden flash of blue light, Takar disappeared from the burning wall and reappeared at the castle docks. Teleportation only worked properly when a specific place had been marked out previously in his mind, and he marked the docks as soon as he arrived at the Old World two weeks ago in case escape was needed. Lurching about on the jetty, he steadied himself against a wooden pylon and waited for the nausea to ride itself out.

Finally it dissipated and found himself alone and the city behind him bathed in an orange from the coming fire at the walls. The screams of the fear crazed town civilians and soldiers meandered down through the salty sea air with a profound sadness that Takar did not feel.

Instead he was angry.

He had come here seeking riches, favour and glory. Instead it had been a disastrous failure. All was lost, even the fortress that had stood proud and strong for nearly a hundred years. A symbol of man's spirit of adventure and yearning to conquer and explore and he was responsible for its destruction.

Despondent, he went about untying the moorings and stepped up the plank to the deck of his ship.

"Milord! What is happening?" One of the deckhands asked, panic in his eyes and those of the rest of the crew behind him. They were mercenaries, one and all, loyalty purchased with the king's gold. Nevertheless, they were the most experienced at traversing the North Sea to the Old World and had a canny knack for survival.

_Hence I find them here, already on board_. Takar couldn't help but smile at the dumbfounded crew. "Push off and make for home at once, Lorader."

"But the townsfolk, the soldiers-."

"Are lost." Takar cut him off and swept his eyes over the stunned crew with fury in his eyes. "Get to it, or I'll boil the brains right out of your thick heads right now!"

As street smart and experienced as the men were, magicians were never ones to be trifled with as far as they were concerned, and despite their own misgivings, they set about setting sail and disembarking.

Quickly the ship drifted out towards the mouth of the bay and the castle pulled away. However, they were all close enough to see the crowd of people that were gathered too late at the docks and their desperate cries as they were left to die, whether by fire or otherwise.

The crew couldn't help but look back at them with honest sadness and low hearts. Takar kept his eyes south towards Duht's Castle, already thinking of how he was going to explain himself to the king.

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